Playing James (2 page)

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and balances it precariously across the top of a coffee mug. He narrows his eyes suspiciously as he exhales a long stream of smoke.

'What's wrong with her?'

'Wrong with her?'

'Yes, wrong with her.'

'Wrong with her?'

'Holly! Stop sounding like a demented parrot and tell me what's wrong with her. Presumably she is going to the hospital because something is wrong with her?'

'Of course something is wrong with her,' I say in a strained voice, uncomfortably aware of the absolute whiffiness of the situation. I wish I had spent my time in the lift a little more constructively and actually thought this through.

'This isn't
you
we're talking about, is it? Is there really "a friend"?'

See? Nobody ever buys the friend stuff. 'Yes, there is! It's Lizzie and she's waiting in the car!' I say indignantly.

'Well, what's wrong with her then?'

'It's, er, women's stuff,' I say shiftily. That just about covers it.

Luckily the mere mention of gynaecological problems gets Joe to dramatically shift into reverse gear. He wearily waves me away as though fighting a losing battle. 'Try not to be long,' he says resignedly.

'Thanks, Joe!'

I make to walk out, but just as I get my hand on the door handle he stops me with a question.

'Did you say you were going to the hospital?'

I blink nervously. Is he trying to catch me out or something? 'The hospital. Yes.'

He frantically starts shuffling through a pile of papers in front of him. 'There's a story you could cover while you're down there.'

'What is it?' I ask with interest, coming back towards his desk.

'A suspect in a fraud case tried to make a run for it and ended up in a car accident. The police are down there now waiting for him to be treated.'

'Shouldn't Pete go?' Smug Pete is the paper's crime correspondent and therefore this is his beat.

'Pete's out on another story.'

'OK then!' I say eagerly. Crime correspondent is hardly a coveted job as our relationship with the police is far from ideal, but such is the lowliness of my position on the features team, by virtue of my age, that I rarely get to cover anything of interest. I grab a notebook and the brief and make a run for Tristan and Lizzie before Joe changes his mind. Anything makes a welcome change from what I'm working on at the moment.

'Got to cover a story,' I gasp to Lizzie a few minutes later as I shove all my limbs into the car at once.

'Eh?'

'A story at the hospital. Joe wants me to look into it whilst we're there.' I reach for my seatbelt and simultaneously turn on the ignition.

'Holly! You're supposed to be there with me!'

'I
will
be with you. It's just one itty-bitty story I have to do.'

We set off again at breakneck speed and race around the streets. We arrive far too soon at our destination and spy a parking space which I manage to beat a BMW to. Resisting the urge to execute a handbrake turn into it, I enthusiastically parallel park (I am mustard at parallel parking).

'Gosh!' I exclaim breathlessly, 'that was fun, wasn't it?'

'You should have just shaken me upside down by my ankles and had done with it,' Lizzie mutters mutinously.

'I needed to get you here quickly, Lizzie! You might die of Toxic Shock Syndrome or something!' I cheerfully release my bones from their seatbelt sling.

'As opposed to dying of just plain old shock, I suppose,' she snaps, heaving herself out of the car.

I stroll into the building and up to the front desk with Lizzie limping frantically behind me. We get into the queue behind a small boy and his mother. The small boy rather disturbingly seems to have swallowed a plastic dinosaur. Apparently it is his third this week. A stegosaurus, followed by a raptor and now finally a tyrannosaurus. Lizzie and I wait while the lady behind the desk painstakingly writes all this down.

Lizzie looks anxiously about for spies in the form of would-be do-gooders called Teresa and I have a good stare around the Casualty ward while the spelling of 'tyrannosaurus' goes on. It hasn't changed much since my previous visits. I've been to Casualty a couple of times. Last time it was because I'd hit myself in the face with a tennis racket and needed six stitches in my eyebrow (which was very fortuitous on the scarring front). My wound, which positively gushed with blood, meant I went to the front of the Casualty queue.

As a double bonus, the doctor who treated me was ab-so-lute-ly gorgeous, a real-life version of George Clooney from
ER
. His dark, smouldering looks nearly made me forget why I was there. The blood all over my face made my natural charms a little hard to see, so I tried to show off my feet as they are my second-best feature (so I've been told). I don't believe he really noticed them though, and when I offered to take my plimsolls off he said he didn't think that was necessary. I remember his name quite well. It was Dr Kirkpatrick. I think it is an absolutely magnificent name and I rather fancied being Mrs Kirkpatrick at the time (although that is quite out of the question now because I am in love with Ben and intend to stay that way).

The small boy is finally led off, being cuffed round the head by his mother all the way, and Lizzie and I step up to the reception desk.

'Hello!' I greet the receptionist cheerfully.

'How can I help you?'

'Well, I called earlier and was advised to come down. I have a bit of a delicate problem.'

The lady raises her eyebrows enquiringly and purses her pink-frosted lips accordingly, so I lower my voice to a whisper and continue. 'I have a condom stuck inside me.'

We gaze at each other for a second. She looks as though she has swallowed her lips, then reaches over for a form and asks me to fill it in. I do so and Lizzie and I go through to the waiting room and take a seat.

I pat Lizzie's knee; she is looking a little strained, poor thing.

'See?' I whisper. 'Easy.'

'When I'm called, will you come with me?'

I take a quick look around and spot two official-looking blokes talking animatedly in the corner – they might be the police officers on my fraud case. 'Well, I really have to go and cover this story,' I say, staring at them.

'Please?' She turns puppy eyes on me.

I sigh. 'All right. But look, I think those men over there must be police officers, so I'm just going to go and make a few inquiries while we wait. But I'll be back,' I say with a fake Arnie accent, 'and the dinosaur will take at least ten minutes.' And with this I scurry over to my suspects.

'Hello!' I greet the two men cheerfully. Both are dressed in shirts and ties, with their shirt sleeves rolled up but no jackets. The one I am facing smiles lazily; he's rather nice-looking with dark, thick hair. The other one swivels round. The greenest pair of eyes I have ever seen bore into me suspiciously. The green eyes, I can't help noticing, belong to the head of an immensely attractive young man. And the head is atop a rather splendid physique.

It takes me by surprise somewhat. 'Yes?' he snaps.

'Er …'

'Well?'

'Are you police officers?'

'Do you need to report something?' he asks with, I fancy, a soupçon of derision.

I am tempted to refer to my notes, but I bravely plough onwards instead. 'I understand one of your suspects from the Stacey fraud case has been involved in a car accident?'

'Do you indeed? And which newspaper are you from?'

'
Bristol Gazette
.'

'And what do you want to know?'

'Anything you can tell me?'

'Go and talk to our PR department. They'll be issuing a press release.'

'But has the suspect been badly injured? Were you about to arrest him? And on what charges? Have you arrested anyone else in connection with the case? Or—'

'What's your name?' he cuts in. I'm starting to wish Old Green Eyes' manner could match his looks.

'Holly Colshannon.'

'Well, Holly Colshannon,' he says grimly, 'as persistent as you seem, you will have to wait for a press release.' And taking me firmly by the elbow, he escorts me to the front desk.

'You can't do this!' I protest as he frogmarches me across the waiting room. Lizzie watches in horror. He doesn't answer.

'Please don't admit this young lady again,' he says to the woman on the desk.

The woman looks at me. 'But she's here to be treated, Officer.'

'Yes! I'm here to be treated, Officer,' I indignantly echo.

'Really?' He lets go of my elbow and looks me up and down. 'And what exactly is wrong with her? She looks pretty healthy to me.'

Oh shit. Both the lady and I hesitate.

'Well?'

'It's, er, personal.'

'Big coincidence, isn't it? That you happen to need treatment and then, lo and behold!, one of the suspects from the story you need to cover is admitted too!'

'Well, I am terribly sorry for being a coincidence,' I say in my best sarcastic voice.

'Holly?' A voice interrupts us from behind. It's Lizzie. They're calling you,' she says acidly, with eyes open wide and teeth gritted. She jerks her head pointedly.

'Excuse me, Officer. But I have to go through for my treatment now.' And with this, I draw myself up, hold my head high and march over to Lizzie.

'Of all the pig-headed, nasty, sly rats,' I rave at Lizzie as we follow a nurse down some corridors.

'Er, Holly?'

'Bad tempered, odious, repellent worm …'

'Holly?'

'Lily-livered, vicious, detestable—'

'HOLLY!!'

I jump. 'What?'

'Do you mind if we concentrate on me for a second?'

'Of course not, Lizzie.' I rub her arm comfortingly. 'After all, we are here for you. Do you know,' I continue, 'that he was practically accusing that poor lady of—'

'HOLLY! STOP IT!'

'Right. Sorry. I'm one hundred per cent here.'

We follow the nurse towards a bed, where she draws a curtain around us and says that the doctor will be here shortly. We wait for a few seconds and I fume silently to myself.

Finally I say, 'Lizzie, would you mind if I just had a little poke around to see if I can find the bloke who's been injured? He must be in here somewhere and I can't stand the idea of that slimy git back there getting the better of me. I'll just be a couple of minutes …' Lizzie waves her arm at me impatiently and I slip out into the ward.

I start walking past the beds, wondering exactly how I'm going to find this person when I don't even know his name (not released in my brief) or the type of accident he was involved in. I stop short as I spy something in a far corner.

It's an old-fashioned English bobby, dressed in the habitual black and white uniform and wearing a considerably more friendly expression than his plain-clothed colleague. He's sitting next to a bed which is shrouded by curtains, sipping a cup of tea. I quell the desire to run over squealing with joy, which may alarm him somewhat, and instead execute a more steady pace.

Ten minutes later I have all the information I need to make an excellent story. I have to cut short my jolly conversation with PC Woods as I spot my green-eyed friend striding up the ward towards me, and from the look on his face he has spotted me too. I nip out of a door behind me, resisting the urge to flip a V-sign, and then, with a smile I can't wipe from my face, cut back round to Lizzie.

'Lizzie?' I call from the other side of the curtains. 'Can I come in?'

'Yes, Holly.'

I poke my head around the divide to find Lizzie sitting on the edge of the bed, gloomily staring ahead of her. 'Been seen yet?'

'No.'

Before I can tell her about my news story, the curtain is flung to one side and a nurse asks, 'Which one of you is Holly Colshannon?'

'I am,' I say automatically, before my brain engages itself.

She points at me and says to an approaching figure, 'This is the patient.' The gorgeous Dr Kirkpatrick stands before us.

I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life. Never. The emotional scars from the last hour or so will be with me for a long time. I will probably never be able to have sex again without at least a year in therapy.

Dr Kirkpatrick was still gorgeous. I know I said that I am in love with Ben and I am, but that doesn't stop me admiring other people and, even worse, craving their good opinion. I think it would be quite fair to say that Dr Kirkpatrick's good opinion and I are destined never to meet. The first thing he said was, 'You've been here before, haven't you? I recognise the name.'

Damn and blast it for ever. The nurse was looking at me in rather a strange manner, as though I was a serial condom-bagger and did this on a regular basis.

I went bright crimson and was completely incapable of saying anything. Unfortunately he wasn't.

'No need to be embarrassed. Pop your knickers off and get up on the bed.'

Aaaarrgh! I could have killed myself! How mortifying is that! And what was my best friend doing in the midst of all of this? A very good question. She, too, was apparently struck dumb by his sheer beauty and was not quite ready to own up to her predicament. One wonders how far everything could have got before she had felt ready to own up.

At this point I still hadn't uttered a single word (charming or otherwise). I glared at Lizzie so viciously I expected her hair to go up in flames. It's fair to say our friendship was hanging in the balance in those few seconds. She knew exactly what my look was saying – it was the business. Squinty eyes, the works. It wasn't saying, 'Could you give me a hand up on to the bed?' It was shouting, 'OWN UP NOW!!'

Things got worse. A minor tussle ensued between me and the nurse. She was trying to hustle me towards the bed with a, 'Come, come, the doctor hasn't got all day,' when at long last I found my voice. My face still burning, I bellowed, 'LIZZIE, TELL THEM NOW.' At this point Lizzie simultaneously found her conscience and the ability to speak and told them that it was her with the problem and not me. I sank, absolutely exhausted, into the chair by the side of the bed. It's not every day that you have an over-enthusiastic nurse tugging at your knickers.